Ikedaya
by Mir
Summary: It was the night that won the Shinsengumi their fame, a festive scene of celebration consumed by bloodshed and disaster. This was the Ikedaya Inn affair: a nightmare come true. Complete.
1. Part 1

**Title: Ikedaya**  
Rating: pg-13  
Author: Mir   
Email: tomodachi at gmail dot com

disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.

AN: This piece is based on actual events, but for various reasons (the largest one being that Himura Kenshin is a fiction character), a good deal of fiction has been woven into fact, and a bunch is just pure imagination. In the OAV's Kenshin and Tomoe do come to the Inn near the end of the action -- but I'm rearranging events around to make things a little more interesting. This is by no means an accurate factual account of the events leading up to the incident and the incident itself. It is merely a work of fanfiction.

AN2: This piece is actually one my favorites that I wrote… back in the years when I actually had time for writing and such. I'd like to go back and edit it (smooth out the rough places). Is it worth the effort?

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part 1

"Take care Sir, and be sure to tell your wife that the next shipment of coal will be in by Tuesday!" The merchant leaned against the doorway of his shop, arms folded casually across his chest and dark eyes squinting into the low afternoon sun. His words, uttered with that thick, unmistakable Kyoto accent, sliced through the damp summer heat, and he wiped a sleeve across his brow as he retreated back inside. Above his head hung a weather-beaten wooden sign: "Kiemon's Masuya Shop -- utensils, gadgets, and other paraphernalia." Above the empty street, the characters faded into fuzzy shadows as the daylight gradually disappeared.

The merchant known as Kiemon passed silently through the public area of the shop to the back and into his small kitchen. An unassuming man, mild-mannered and physically unremarkable, he'd lived by himself, running the shop day in and day out for as long as any of his neighbors could remember. They knew of no family, no close friends, no significant other in his life, but he seemed content with his solitary existence, and it wasn't polite to press him for details. After all, if a man wants to keep to himself, there's not harm in that as long as he doesn't disturb public order.

The evening air was heavy with humidity, and the merchant yawned as he sat down to his modest dinner of miso soup, rice, fish, and pickled vegetables. He reached tiredly for his chopsticks and resolved to go to bed early.

"Kotaka Shuntaro, come out! We know you're in there!" Fists banged heavily on the building's wooden frame, and the merchant's chopsticks froze midway between the bowl and his mouth. Emotion flashed rapidly across his face, first terror, then anger and determination. With uncharacteristic resolve he rose to his feet and crept toward the front of the shop, but he hadn't gone more than five or six paces when the ripping of paper and the crashing of merchandise signaled that the intruders had entered. "Find the Choushuu bastard and bring him here... alive."

There was no mistaking the undertone of disgust and distain in the command, and the merchant's heart skipped a beat whien he recognized the speaker to be the ruthless wolf of Miburo, Saitou Hajime, the leader of the third squad of the Shinsengumi. There was no place to hide in the darkened room -- not that he would have if there had been, for even merchants have their pride and dignity, but the only weapons at his disposal were his bare fists, and he knew that, with the shop surrounded by Shinsengumi, there was no hope of escape.

"There he is -- it's the Choushuu spy!" Two men burst into the room, and if the merchant had harbored any doubt, the blue striped haori and naked swords held before them were evidence enough of their intentions. Barely pausing a moment at the threshold, they rushed forward toward their unmoving target.

When they were within range, the merchant viscously lashed out with fists and feet, landing a firm kick to one man's side but swinging wide of his other opponent's head

He ducked just in time as a sword sliced through the air above him. Then, without missing a beat, he used the swordsman's momentum to his advantage and landed a punch that sent the man sprawling to the floor and his sword crashing to the ground beside him. The stench of sweat assailed his senses in the semi-darkness as he struggled to catch his breath.

"You've been a damned nuisance, Kotaka, but this is the end for you and the rest of your Choushuu Imperialist dogs." Saitou's voice echoed low and cold into the stillness a moment before his tall frame appeared in the doorway, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword. His long shadow stretched along the floor before him, cast downward by the flickering of lanterns as his back.

"Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will not win." Kotaka, alias Kiemon, a ronin samurai and long-time Choushuu spy, had known the moment he'd heard his true name that his luck had run out. To his credit, though, his only regret as he stood unarmed before the Shinsengumi captain was that he wouldn't have the satisfaction of taking down a whole unit of worthless blue-coated thugs with him. "You Shinsengumi are nothing but Bakufu pawns and Aizu lackeys." The rational part of his mind took note of Saitou's distinctive gatotsu stance, but even knowing the technique, he had nothing with which to parry the powerful horizontal thrust. His world went black, and he welcomed death as an escape from the relentless struggle of life. After all, as was understood through the code of Bushido, the most noble thing a warrior could do was die.

"It's you who has been the pawn—a pawn to foolishness and idiocy." Saitou coolly extracted his sword from the unmoving heap, flicked the blood off, and resheathed it without further comment. If Kotaka had been conscious, he would have appreciated the efficiency of motion and the calm assurance of his opponent's demeanor, but he was, of course, in no position to do so.

"Captain, sir--" The excited call dispelled the stillness, and the young swordsman, barely out of his teens, who appeared in the doorway was breathless and flushed with excitement. "-- we've found documents, papers outlining the rebels' plans, but what's more, we've found a stash of guns and ammunition in the basement!" His eager grin was perhaps more fitting for a country farmboy than for a young samurai, but he failed to notice the gleam of disapproval in his superiors' eyes or the trace of impatience in his movements.

Nodding curtly in acknowledgement, Saitou swept past his two fallen comrades out into the humid night. "Take the moron over there back to headquarters. I've some questions to ask him." And as the darkness enveloped the famed wolf of Miburo, his lip curled upward into a cool grin, part-sneer part-smile. Their informant had been correct, and the night's activities had proved useful, yes very useful indeed.

- - - - - - - - - -

"The prisoner's ready, Captain." The young man, clad in faded gray, emerged from the interior room. Known by his friends for his persistent frown and monotone voice, his demeanor was, if possible, even more dour than usual. "He's just coming 'round." He wiped his hands down the sides of his hakama, leaving moist sweaty trails across the rough fabric. "I'll leave you with him. He shouldn't give you any trouble."

The small square room, constructed with solid wooden walls instead of paper shouji, was dark save for the soft glow of lanterns which cast isolated pools of light onto the bare floor. The air was still, the heat sweltering. Hung suspended in the air by thick ropes was the merchant, his head a good distance from the floor and his feet raised above him, knees tied to his chest.

"Kotaka." At the noise the man stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping his lips. And as he opened his eyes, the blurred patches of light and dark coalesced into the tall form of Saitou Hajime still wearing his blue-striped haori, both swords at his side. The wolf emerged from the shadows, his footsteps soundless and movements effortless, nothing betraying the weariness brought about by the night's lack of sleep. "Tell me about the guns and artillery." The merchant's eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing. "We searched your basement and found everything: papers, weapons, ammunition." Saitou stood within two paces of his prisoner's head, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze cold, penetrating, unforgiving.

"If you knew everything, I'd already be dead." The merchant spat as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, aiming for Saitou's feet but missing.

The Shinsengumi captain remained unmoving where he stood. He waited tacitly in the semi-darkness, waited like a man who had all the time in the world.

"You've lived a worthless life, Kotaka, and you'll die a worthless death regardless of anything you say or don't. How could it be any different for a man who laid aside his pride to live as a merchant spy for the most corrupt and despicable of the Ishinshishi? What else can you expect after sinking so deep into filth and corruption?" With a soft rustle of fabric he turned away from the prisoner, his gaze drifting across the wooden walls to the ceiling two stories up. "If you talk you'll die swiftly by the sword. Otherwise, you can rot for weeks in here for all I care."

Kotaka shook his head slightly, lips pressed together in both pain and stubbornness. His death was assured regardless of his future actions, and he would not betray his comrades; their work was too important. Nonetheless, at the sound of a sword being slid from its sheath, his heart skipped a beat in his chest, and adrenalin shot through his veins. His hands clenched into fists, and he inhaled sharply. Instincts once learned are difficult to discard.

- - - - - - - - - -

A smudge of darkness underneath the pale light of dawn, the wolf emerged into daylight. His footsteps were heavy, but as he walked with head held high, a trace of smug satisfaction flickered across his features. The guard snoring softly at the door didn't wake as his captain passed by, but there was little need for his services at the present hour anyway. The spy formerly known as Kotaka lay crumpled in a bloody heap on the floor, his body still warm, his vacant eyes starting blankly into darkness.

- - - - - - - - - -

Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, the Choushuu headquarters in Kyoto was as stiflingly hot as any other building in the ancient capital. The guards at the entrance shifted restlessly from foot to foot, their hands on their nervously swords and sweat dripping into their eyes. Inside, Katsura Kogoro, one of the highest-ranking officials in the Choushuu government, knelt across from Miyabe Teizo, his hands resting formally on his thighs.

Miyabe, a Kumamoto loyalist and a ronin, stared beseechingly at his younger companion, anguish contorting his heavyset features. "We have to rescue Kotaka. The torture that the Shinsengumi are capable of..." His eyes widened as his imagination began to supply a vivid gallery of possible atrocities. "...and, and if he talks, our plans are ruined." The stress of recent times had prematurely streaked his hair with gray, and the lines around his eyes and lips were caused more by worry than by age.

"They're already ruined," Katsura replied in a low voice, his back straightening as he spoke. "If the Shinsengumi knew enough to arrest him. And if they don't know more already... they soon will." His face was emotionless, but the tension in his shoulders and back betrayed his anxiety. His reached for the paper fan folded by his side and held it tightly with calloused fingers.

Across from him, Miyabe wiped a white handkerchief across his forehead and stared unabashedly into Katsura's eyes. "They'll torture it out of him, torture him then kill him."

Katsura broke eye contact, gaze falling to the tatami mats beneath him. Having lived in Kyoto, he was no stranger to the acts that the Shinsengumi were capable of, no stranger to its inflexible code and demand for absolute loyalty of its members. Although the troops were in actuality apolitical, the conduct of Shinsengumi was ruled by the iron fist of its leaders who did not question the virtues of the Bakufu. Their banner was emblazoned with the Chinese character for "sincerity," and they lived the traditional way of the warrior, Bushido -- while receiving monthly stipends from the government.

"We have to act quickly. We have to move tonight before the Shinsengumi have time to respond to the information they now have." Miyabe leaned forward, intent on promoting his cause. He had brought the news of Kotaka's arrest to Katsura in the hope that the Choushuu leader would organize the spy's rescue, but as he realized it was futile to continue to press his original cause, he once again turned his attention to the plans concerning the storming of the Imperial palace and the kidnapping of the Emperor.

"I'm very sorry Miyabe-san, but I can't risk the lives of my men to attempt to save someone who is most likely already dead." His words, although cool and rational, were tempered by the honest regret in his tone, and he paused for a moment before continuing. "As for the attack on the palace, how can we fight thousands of Bakufu troops with only twenty or thirty men? We must return to our domains, raise Imperialist armies, and then return to Kyoto. There is nothing we can do now."

Having been recently convinced by the Tosa ronin, Sakamoto Ryoma, of the futility of an attack on the palace, Katsura declined to mention to Miyabe that as the highest ranking Choushuu official in Kyoto he could not have anything to do with a countercoup that would undoubtedly fail -- because the very rashness of the act would weaken his credibility as Choushuu's diplomat to Kyoto.

Miyabe knew that he would have no success in persuading Katsura to immediate action, but nonetheless he continued to press for commitment. "But the meeting at the Ikedaya Inn tonight, you'll be there? They confiscated all the weapons at the shop, and we have to decide whether or not to carry out the plan at a later date." Except for the sounds of the two men's breathing, the room was silent as the heavy afternoon sunlight streamed through the shouji upon them.

Katsura unfolded and refolded the fan, his jaw tightening in agitation. He knew Miyabe's plan to be reckless, but he had to somehow appease the radicals because he could not afford to lose their support. He waved the fan before his face, and hoped that the movement was enough the disguise his distaste. "I'll be there with some of my men," he promised tersely.

And Miyabe smiled, confident that even Katsura, the headstrong leader of the Ishinshishi in Kyoto, could be convinced of the importance of Kotaka's rescue and of the plans for attacking the palace. "I knew I could count on you. We'll meet at the hour of the dog." His expression was one of victory as he paid his host the appropriate formulaic compliments and departed without further mention of upcoming meetings or plans.

After the other man had left, Katsura remained seated in the empty room, fan once more folded neatly on the ground beside him, eyes closed against the sunlight. His breathing was deep and regular, but the young man who slipped soundlessly in through the open doorway knew the Choushuu leader too well to think that he was sleeping.

"And I will accompany you tonight?" In contrast to the confidence of his step and the fluidity of his movements, the speaker's voice was soft and boyish, his tone dull and flat but his eyes piercingly sharp.

Not surprised by the other's presence, Katsura hesitated only a moment before shaking his head in negation. "Nothing must happen tonight. The radicals must be convinced that any action would be premature." The words were simple, rational but the warning held undertones of grave consequences. "Stay here. I will go to the Ikedaya alone."

end of part 1

- - - - - - - - - -

After writing this, I went back and rewatched the first OVA tape... and realized that indeed the Ikedaya Inn incident is documented on it. In the following part(s) I will combine historical fact, the OVA, and my own ideas about how the events of the night could have passed. Thus, this piece will not be true to either history (of course, because Kenshin didn't really exist) or the OVA (because the OVA is not true to history, and there are some aspects of the history that I'd like to stick to) -- and also because Tomoe stops Kenshin from going into the Inn in the movie... So, to make a long story short, this is my own take on the incident . It's fiction, and I'm having a good time with it.

- Mir (02.08.02)

Note: (12/06) I'm editing this story for writing style and clarity, not content per se. Maybe if I feel inclined I'll add some more details here and there… I just want to make the writing a little better.


	2. Part 2

Title: Ikedaya   
Rating: pg-13   
Author: Mir   
Email: tomodachi at gmail dot com 

disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.

AN: Again, let me reiterate that this piece is not true to either historical fact or the first OAV. It is instead a combination of both and my own imagination. This has been a while coming, but I've really enjoyed writing it. There's hardly any Katsura fanfiction, and it's great fun trying to get into his head.

AN2: This is the edit of part 2. I like going back and re-reading my old stories again. Not only is it like reading a new story for the first time… but is it possible that my writing was better back in high school than it was now? How sad!

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part 2

They threaded their way through the crowded streets, two men clothed in dark colors with heads bowed and swords thrust through their obi. There was nothing unusual about the sight itself -- even the Shinsengumi were brazen enough to parade through Kyoto under the midday sun with crowds nervously looking on. The smaller of the two figures, his face hidden by the shadow of a broad circular straw hat, trailed behind his associate as pedestrians streamed by. He glanced neither to the left or right, but there was no doubt that he noticed more in his peripheral vision than most men do head-on.

"The word is that Miyabe plans to burn the city to the ground. The weather's been so dry lately that the houses will ignite like tinder. Katsura's instructions are to tell anyone we care about to leave." They stopped before the familiar inn, and the speaker, as he pushed the door aside, glanced back over his shoulder with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "So, are you going to talk to Tomoe?"

Kenshin's eyes, trained on the bare ground beneath him, were hidden beneath the wide brim of the hat, but eventually his lips moved, the flat response slipped out between clenched teeth. "If she wants, she can leave Kyoto on her own."

Iizuka's shoulders lifted and fell indifferently as he parted the split curtain with one hand and stepped inside the doorway. "Just figured that since you saved her once, you might want to do it again." He turned briskly to the left, not waiting to hear a reply. Behind him the door remained open as Himura Kenshin sullenly crossed the threshold with lips pressed together and eyes narrowed in annoyance. He stared as his mentor's retreating back, his thoughts spinning in circles like the wobbly revolutions of a child's top.

It would be just his luck that as he approached his room, the rhythmic cadence of bristles sweeping across the floor clearly indicated that she was inside. Despite rumors to the contrary, after the first night, she had always slept downstairs with the other inn girls, never venturing past his door once the deep purple shades of dusk began to pour through the open window.

'I do think of you sometimes,' she had admitted one morning as she had stepped aside for him to pass on the narrow stairway. 'Whenever I serve breakfast and don't see your face among the others I try to image where you've been the night before.' At his surprised expression she'd shaken her head, her arms full of clean white towels. 'Of course I don't know exactly where you've been... but not knowing doesn't stop me from imagining. I'm sorry. I can't help myself...' She'd paused, not eagerly awaiting a response as some girls might have done, but rather merely catching her breath with the intent of continuing on her way without a backward glance. It was the most she'd spoken to him since her arrival.

'You shouldn't bother. It's not worth the time,' he'd replied distantly. His habitual nocturnal activities were evident in the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the thin red capillaries that feathered outward from his pupils. They were manifest in the rounded slump of his shoulders and the way he leaned against the wall behind him to disguise the weariness of exhaustion. And without further comment he'd left her standing in the stairway as he half-stumbled toward the kitchen, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish but he footsteps, as always, falling without sound.

And instead of immediately ascending to the second story, she'd paused to watch his retreating figure until it disappeared around the next corner. If she was surprised that she felt concern, worry even, for this assassin, this murderer, she told no one. Because who would believe her even if she did?

"I'll be out of your way in a moment." She glanced up briefly at his entrance although the broom continued to glide across the floor. Behind her darkened silhouette, the deep oranges of the falling sun dyed the afternoon sky and traced boldly along the windowsill. The clouds hung suspended in the air like images caught forever by a camera's lens

"I'm in no hurry." Despite the brevity of the response there was a trace of gentleness in his tone.

"I have other chores to finish." Her face remained expressionless as she continued to sweep, her voice flat.

Looking straight ahead, he walked past her and out onto the balcony. Below, a lone man trudged wearily across the courtyard, his shadow trailing obediently behind him like an old dog, lame and half-blind. Above, the orange sun hung low in the sky, partially obscured by clouds that not even the fierce midday heat had been able to burn away. The temperature was dropping with the eminence of nightfall, but even as the swordsman reached forward and gripped the wooden railing, his forehead glistened moistly with beads of sweat.

"I -- I've been given the night off, and I would like to see the festival. Would -- would you..." Abandoning her sweeping, she stepped outside into the humid evening, broom in hand, eyes tracing the cracks that ran haphazardly across the floor. They rarely talked, rarely said more than a word or two in passing, and when they were together, by choice or by chance, neither had words for the myriad of thoughts that spun elusively though their minds.

Though he had felt her approach, his fingers curled tightly around the thin railing at the sound of her voice so close beside him, and replies like leaves caught in a river's swift current streamed though his mind in quick succession -- until he was left with nothing to act upon but instinct. "Yes." There were no regrets, no second thoughts. Time, measured by the edge of the sword, left little opportunity for the luxury of reflection.

- - - - - - - - - -

The streets of Kyoto were overflowing with visitors and pilgrims who had journeyed from far and wide for the annual month-long Gion festival, which was said to have begun in 869 to celebrate the ending of an epidemic that swept through the city. Though the festivities centered on Yasaka Shrine, located on the city's eastern side, they permeated every neighborhood and alley until it seemed as though the city was alight with noise and drunken revelry.

As night descended upon the city, the festivities were illuminated by the colored light from a sea of paper lanterns strung from house to house across the streets. And even as the unrelenting heat pressed down upon the celebrations, the air was filled with the ringing of laughter, the soft glow of fireflies, the steady beat of drums, and the sharp winding of flutes. Into the atmosphere of unrelenting excitement, the high trill of laughter blended with the tap-tap of wooden geta and the sizzling of yakitori grills.

Just before the hour of the dog on the broad Kawaramachi Road, a lone figure dressed in subtly-elegant beige silk wove its way steadily though the crowds. At his waist were the signature swords of a samurai, and although his brisk pace never slowed, he kept carefully to the deep shadows beneath the second-stories of the street's shops and inns. With so many visitors in the city, no one gave him a second glance, let alone questioned his rank or business -- which suited him perfectly, for he was in a hurry to reach his destination and was in no mood for idle chatter with strangers.

The young man who greeted him at the Inn, one Akechi Masaru, bowed deeply as he pushed the door aside. "Welcome to the Ikedaya, Katsura-san. Do you travel alone tonight?" His face, illuminated in the candlelight, was thin and marked by the dreaded teenage affliction of acne, but his voice was deep and smooth, an indication of his eminent adulthood.

"I come alone..." It was statement bound to raise questions in the boy's mind, but Katsura purposefully ignored the beseeching glances thrown in his direction. With recent events in mind, there was no need for the boy to know more than he already did. The less he knew, the less damage he could cause to the Choushuu clan if he was captured and interrogated.

Katsura waited silently in the entrance hall until Masaru had closed the door, but even with the thin barrier separating him from the city streets, he could still feel his heart beating in time with the cadence of the pounding drums, still see the strings of lights glowing before his eyes, still smell the pungent odor of human sweat as it evaporated from warm, swaying bodies. It was almost intoxicating.

"This way, then -- they're already upstairs." With a lantern in hand, the boy led his guest away from the door and through a narrow hallway. The old wooden stairs creaked in protest under their feet, and though he'd frequented the inn before, the ever-vigilant swordsman inside Katsura's head began to analyze the environment. There was nothing special to note about the halls and stairs save the unusual narrowness of the passages. 'I'd hate be caught with my back to the wall in a place like this. There's hardly room to swing a sword.'

But as the boy led him to the second-story front room, the impromptu architectural analysis was swept aside, and Katsura instead turned his attention to the words being shot like arrows across the room from one camp to the other and then back again. They were mostly youngsters, ronin fresh from the countryside with hardly anything to call their own besides their tired family names, the swords at their sides, and the worn clothing on their backs. And still they talked as if they'd just returned from personal audience with the Emperor himself. 'What imprudence.'

"Miyabe's nothing but an old fool with a loose tongue and a grudge against the world." The speaker, his cheeks flushed in both anger and intoxication leaned forward as his fingers strayed to the short sword on the floor besides him. Sake bottles, like stones freshly dug from the earth, lay scattered around the room, and it was evident from the overall atmosphere of the meeting that the consumption hadn't been limited to one or two individuals. "It wouldn't matter if he were harmless, but when idiots like you listen to what he says and--"

An eerie hush fell over the room as Katsura stepped across the threshold. Neither camp wanted to admit that they'd been drinking like merchants and squabbling like children. 'Because they know they're barely older than children and hardly better off than merchants,' he though to himself as his eyes swept carefully along the walls in search of friends and foes alike. 'Neither Miyabe nor Sugiyama are here yet. Damn them -- there's no point in staying here and listening to this riffraff drink themselves stupid and pretend to debate politics all night.'

And so with a nod to his own supporters, he leaned his shoulder toward Akechi and muttered softly through clenched teeth, "There's some business I need to attend to at the Tsushima headquarters. If Miyabe comes, tell him I am on my way back. Under no circumstances is he to leave this inn until I return. Do you understand?" In fact, Katsura had no intention of proceeding to the Tsushima headquarters... but there was no need for anyone else to know the nature and location of his business that night.

"I understand Katsura-san. He will remain here even if I have to bar his exit with my body and my sword," the young man replied in earnest... too earnestly? The thought, a mere flicker of suspicion, flashed through Katsura's mind as he nodded curtly to the assembled company and descended back down the narrow stairs. 'Is this the future of our country? Are these the men who'll continue the work when we're gone?'

He paused momentarily at the threshold, just enough time for a nod to the boy without losing step, and breathed deeply of the thick night air while a slight twitch of his mouth betrayed the thoughts that his eyes did not. 'Because we will succeed. The is only failure and ruin awaiting our country if we do not.'

- - - - - - - - - -

She floated through the crowds with her features molded into an expression of practiced indifference. Though the rhythmic tapping of her wooden geta against the rough cobblestones caught the attention of more than one male pedestrian, and the exquisite quality of her kimono was enough alone to turn heads, she'd learned to ignore their suggestive gazes long ado. Ikumatsu was a geisha, beautiful, refined, cultured... and making her way home at the end of a long day.

The men from Aizu Han, three lower samurai with money enough but no charm to speak of, had monopolized her attention for the better part of the evening. She'd suffered through their rough dispositions and uncensored conversation, all the while pretending to ignore the slander thrown unhesitatingly against the Ishinshishi. It would not have been fitting for her, a woman, to prove their statements false. They talked freely amongst themselves because of her gender, but their blind ignorance would ultimately assure their deaths.

As she approached her house, a modest dwelling on the western bank of the Kamagawa, she threw a quick glance up and down the street. It was only after assuring herself that the shadows were free of assassins that she opened the door and stepped inside into the gentle darkness. She had no reason to fear for her life, but it was certainly better to be careful than to be dead.

She pulled a folding fan from her sleeve and snapped it open in the semi-darkness, but the slight circulation of the air before her did little to dispel the lingering humidity. And walking in her tabi socks across the tatami with steps slowed by hesitation, she bit her lip and closed her eyes while lines of worry creased her forehead. Knowledge is power. It was a truism, a fact of life bestowed by parents on the disinterested ears of children. But as Ikumatsu paused mid-step halfway to the staircase she silently added her own amendment -- Knowledge is power if you're a man with resources.

She shook her head tiredly and a silky dark curtain cascaded upon her shoulders as she delicately pulled the pins from her hair. It had been years since she'd worn her hair down, years since she'd been a young girl with nothing behind her bright smile save the blissful gift of innocence. Youth, of course, is wasted on the young.

She reached for the round tortoiseshell mirror with gracefully tapering fingers. It had belonged to her mother more than a decade ago, and when she stared at the reflection washed pale in the moonlight, memories of days passed crept tentatively into her mind. They were well received in the fleeting stillness of the moment, and for just an instant she indulged herself in the sights and sounds of her childhood. The air rung with the laughter of younger siblings as snow gathered on her shoulders and melted on the tongue.

Then, with the abruptness of a sudden gunshot, the quiet tap against her doorframe shattered the stillness, and Ikumatsu's head snapped up from where it had fallen against her chest. "It's me." Her eyes widened slightly at the greeting, and in an instant she had scrambled to her feet.

"You're safe." Their eyes met, and she studied Katsura's handsome features while her hands reached for his to pull him closer. "I'd thought..."

He frowned in concern, allowing himself to be led safely inside by his lover. "Did you find something out? Is something wrong?" In the past, Ikumatsu had acted as a spy for the Ishinshishi. Her patrons never suspected that behind the painted smile and steady grace were ears as sharp as a fox.

"No, nothing." A shadow crossed her face, but she shook her head and smiled calmly for his benefit. "Are you staying here tonight?" After closing the door she reached for the nearest lamp, and soon the room was warmed by the gentle yellow glow of candlelight.

He removed his sandals and followed her with light footsteps but lips pressed together in tense contemplation. "I am not. The meeting at the Ikedaya has yet to begin, and I must persuade Miyabe to give up his foolish plans. He'll be the ruin of us all." His ears still rang with the loud clanging of brass bells, and as he sank to the floor in his customary spot across from Ikumatsu, he found himself wishing he were back in Choushuu with his own land solidly beneath his feet and the clear night sky arching from horizon to horizon above.

"Here, have some sake." She placed the shallow ceramic dish in his hand as he stared off into space, knowing that there was nothing she could say to persuade him to stay away from the meeting. Knowledge... is power to those who use it to their advantage, and Ikumatsu, although a woman, was certainly no fool. She allowed herself a quiet smile as she refilled the dish once, twice. And as the minutes passed by, Katsura murmured softly to himself, stifled a yawn, and at last drifted peacefully into sleep.

She knelt beside him after turning him onto his back and gently slipping a cushion beneath his head, hands resting calmly on her thighs. The Aizu samurai had discussed at length their plans for attacking the meeting at the Ikedaya that evening. Working in conjunction with the Shinsengumi, they had been absolutely glowing with the bright prospect of their assured success. They never suspected that the painted beauty playing music beside them was in actuality an enemy spy.

end of part 2

- - - - - - - - - -

Just for the record, Masaru has no historical grounding and is a creation of my imagination. Katsura is greeted by a sympathizer of the Ishinshishi at the Inn, but I haven't run across a name or anything about the young man... With Kenshin's actual involvement in the attack, I'm planning to began with what happens in the OAV and then branch off into new directions -- so keep your eyes open for part 3 -- Mir (03.22.02)

Edit (12/05): I keep wanted to add more paragraphs, to expand the scenes—to make these edits more substantial—but it's hard to find places to do so without disturbing the flow of the story. Maybe I'll have more luck in the next chapter… I was only able to add about 300 words into this one…  
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	3. Part 3

Title: Ikedaya   
Rating: pg-13   
Author: Mir   
Email: tomodachi at gmail dot com 

disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.

AN: Ah, sorry for the extended pause. I've been caught up in several projects, but I haven't forgotten this story...Thank you for your comments! To those who have been asking me for a Saiotu vs. Kenshin encounter... be patient; it's coming, just not in this chapter .

AN2: To be truthful, one of the reasons why I've decided to go back and edit this story is because I recently saw Memoirs of a Geisha on the big screen. Even if you have issues with the story or certain aspects of historical accuracy, you can't fault the beauty of the set, most of which was actually built in CA…

--------------------------------------------------

part 3

They left the building one behind the other, stepping into the street like husband and wife. They needed no lantern to guide them, as the lights of the festival illuminated the road, and the air above the city of Kyoto was saturated with the sounds of music and laughter. He led the way slowly through the crowds of pilgrims, carefully maneuvering forward step by step, touching no one and drawing no attention to his presence. His shadow, in contrast, was a thin pillar of pale lavender with gaze downcast and smelling faintly of spring. She ignored the eyes that trailed across her figure and traced along curves of her back. After all, they were only men with lustful thoughts and blood-stained hands.

The one she followed had never turned to her with eyes lit with desire, never whispered softly to her in amorous tones. Never had he given any indication that his thoughts were anything but platonic. He appeared uninterested in the tumultuous emotions and cravings that so often captured the attention of his comrades. And as she once again studied him from behind, his apathy left her more perplexed than relieved. Was it something about her in particular, or was it women in general? Perhaps the 'demon' so often quoted by his enemies was not one born of passion but rather of indifference…

"Here... let's stop." She paused at the sound of his voice, both low and penetrating beneath the general clamor. They stood in the doorway of a small restaurant -- the same one, if memory served her correctly, where she'd first seen him -- the past weeks had flown by like deep breaths drawn steadily beneath the cloudless spring sky. At first she had denied the facts, denied the possibility that the slim boy staring pensively into the distance with unfocused eyes while quietly sipping tea in the far corner of the restaurant was, in fact... a murderer of the most ruthless sort. She'd been wrong... about a great many things.

Now, inside, most of the tables were unoccupied. Only a solitary old man tired of the festival's glittering lights and eager crowds rested by himself, half-dozing in the oppressive summer heat. He glanced up without interest as the young couple entered but soon slipped back into his own quiet world of contemplative nostalgia. So the red-haired hitokiri and the somber woman who trailed wordlessly behind him settled down across from each other underneath the wooden-slated window. At last she reached forward and poured sake first for him and then for herself. Their eyes met as the clear liquid disappeared -- and it was he who first looked away.

"The sake, it tastes... good again," he muttered as she lifted the bottle once more. She nodded, and the barest hint of a smile tugged at her lips as she accepted the compliment without a word. But even thus removed from the intensity of the celebrations, their hearts beat in time with the heavy drums, and blood cycled through their veins like sand slipping endlessly between cupped fingers.

"There is a meeting at the Ikedaya Inn tonight... at the hour of the dog." Even uttered as a statement, the words murmured softly across the width of the table were correctly interpreted as a question by his companion. She understood him perhaps better than he understood himself. With hands clasped together in her lap, she nodded again, this time with resolve rather than agreement.

"Then I shall go with you... as your sheath." And where another woman might have turned her head aside, she stared at him with eyes suddenly bright with determination.

"... my sheath?" He echoed her words with eyebrows drawn together in a rare moment of innocent confusion, fingers loosely balancing the flat ceramic dish in the air before him. In another place, with another person, she might have laughed at his incomprehension. For all the bravery of his actions, in so many ways, he was still naught but a boy. But not that night, and not with him.

"Katsura-san said... " with her initial excitement fading, she bowed her head as her pale cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment. "...never mind; it's not important." She laced her fingers together, and reproached herself for her forwardness while shifting aimlessly through her mind for something, anything to say to the stranger who sat across from her. "Your wound seems to have finally healed."

"At least the bleeding's stopped," he murmured as though it hadn't bothered him in the first place. "I haven't thought about it in days." She couldn't stop herself from wondering what he thought about instead, what his mind dwelt upon during the long daylight hours. But she'd never asked. After all, it wasn't a woman's place to do so.

"When I look at it, I think the strangest thing... I can't help but wonder about the last thing your victims see, before you..." She heard her words float upward through the air, only half-registering that they were her own. "You kill men who may have wives and families, taking happiness from them every time you draw your sword, but... I don't see how this can bring you much happiness in return."

If he was surprised by her words, his expression remained impeccably calm and indifferent. His mask was well-practiced and rarely faltered. "People die every day for no reason. I don't choose my victims at random," he insisted with unexpected conviction that bespoke of unwavering self-confidence, not the troubled sea of emotions that washed beseechingly against his mind. He registered, without thinking, the entrance of two old women leaning on walking sticks and gossiping to each other about the latest news on the streets.

"Perhaps it's that you don't choose your victims at all. You trust the decisions of the Choushuu leaders. Every time you leave at night, you hold the lives of men in your hands, but you don't even know for yourself if those who you kill deserve to die." Her eyes dropped to the bare wooden table before her, and she bit her tongue to hold back the accusations she knew she had no right to say. It had not been her intention when she'd asked for his company to say such words; was it was the relaxed festival atmosphere that spurred her to voice her thought so clearly?

"It's best that I don't know why. They die for a reason; that's all I need to know... Everyone's life ends sooner or later." He spoke half to her, half to himself. "I don't expect to live a long life myself... but I live for those who died to save my life. It is in their memory that I work to create a better Japan."

His voice caught in his throat, and he hastily swallowed, embarrassed. "It's time. We should go now."

- - - - - - - - - -

The light from sputtering torches glittered in the sharp angles of the golden mikoshi hoisted into the shoulders of their carriers. Teams of men dressed in matching haten jackets and hachimaki (headbands) marched in unison among the thong of spectators and hoarsely chanted with each step that traditional refrain of "washoi, washoi." They lurched from side to side by the beat of wooden clappers and sharp piecing whistles, and the tassels dangling above their heads only served to accentuate their slow, rocking progress. Sweat glistened on the men's skin and dripped freely to the ground below as they muscled their heavy burden on a dizzying spin though the neighborhood. Children, unaware of the potential danger, crowded their feet and chortled in excitement. Old women clapped their hands and slashed buckets of water to cool the unwieldy procession. Everyone was drunk on the moment, lost in the dancing of the scattered stars.

And somewhere, insulated from the boisterous fluster a group of men gathered in the back room of what had once been the Kiemon's Shop. Some, frustrated at having to miss the celebration, fidgeted restlessly as their eyes darted impatiently from object to object in the foreign room. Others, perhaps resigned to their fate or indifferent to the festivities outside, sat with statuesque stillness in the darkness.

Then, only moments later the squad rose and followed their leader out into the night, and the building once again lay empty behind them.

- - - - - - - - - -

With each step from the center of Kyoto, the sounds of the festival grew dimmer until at last the air was quiet, and the stars dozed languidly overhead. The dirt crunched beneath the feet of the two travelers as they wove in and out through narrow alleys without a word passing between them. The man's pace was brisk, as if he were half-afraid of pursuit, half-afraid of his own shadow, and the woman at his heels shuffled awkwardly as she tried to keep up.

"It's him -- the assassin!" The men appeared from nowhere, their faces obscured by darkness but the pattern of their haori clearly defined in the soft yellow glow of lanterns. Shinsengumi without a doubt.

Shifting his weight forward, the hitokiri thus identified reached instinctively for his swords, and as he clenched his teeth together, a low growl escaped from his throat. But Tomoe was beside him, her hands on top of his and the scent of white plum surrounding him and enveloping his senses. He pulled himself away from the distraction. "You must leave this place now. Go --"

"I am your sheath. I am destined to stand beside you." It was a statement, not a question, an earnest profession of loyalty and devotion underneath the blood-red moon.

"You will die," he retorted sharply, tensing beneath her touch, and his eyes, trained on his adversaries, narrowed in anger and impatience. 'Why wouldn't she just run and hide like any other woman?'

"...at your side, for I will have seen you kill. I will know."

Flashbacks of their first meeting flickered across his mind, of that night in the alley when the moist red mist settled upon them like dew-- but even as his ears registered the reply, he jerked roughly away from her grip, his attention directly solely upon Kondou Isumi and his men. "Armor won't save you. Lay down your weapons!" His voice, suddenly resounding from the narrow street, sliced through the night and reverberated from the flimsy wooden walls surrounding them. He slid his foot forward as he spoke, and his hands again reaching for his swords.

"We are trained in the technique of Tennen Rishin Ryuu..." If the speaker felt the icy grip of fear brush against his beating heart, he disguised it well, for his voice was unwavering and his tone confident as he proudly proclaimed the school of himself and his comrades.

"You're all dead --" Hitokiri Battousai interjected as he sprung forward. There was no point in listing his credentials to strangers who wouldn't live to see another day. As he feet flew across the ground, his sword leapt from its sheath in the characteristic battoujutsu style from which he'd acquired his pseudonym. The Shinsengumi leader threw himself to the ground at the last moment, only escaping certain death by a fingers width. He continued to roll away from his opponent, leaving a sticky trail of blood in the dust behind him.

Salvaging his momentum, Kenshin deftly sidestepped the falling obstacle and raised his blade to meet the next antagonist. The second man was unprepared for the swiftness with which the hitokiri's block became a strong slicing attack that cleaved through flesh and bone without resistance. His eyes stared wide in astonishment even as he doubled over and crumpled to the ground, his life running freely from him in warm red streams.

In less time than it took to draw a breath, the hitokiri closed the distance to the third man and slashed viciously across his chest without breaking stride. And behind him, all the while, his shadow followed step by step, carefully maneuvering around the fallen bodies. She studied the spreading crimson pools dispassionately as she walked, deliberately averting her eyes from the bodies themselves and turning a deaf ear to the anguished moans.

He glanced up as he withdrew his sword from the fourth man's neck, his eyes scanning the road as the body slid down the wall to the ground. But the street was eerily quiet, and even the shadows were devoid of movement. 'The Shinsengumi know, and the meeting's in danger. I must warn Katsura-san.' He paused only long enough to flick the blood from his blade and resheath it. Then, grasping Tomoe's hand firmly in his, he took off once again across the darkness.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Are you the owner of the Inn?" Holding a lantern close to the man's face, "the devil" as his men sometimes called him, Hijikata Toshizou, second in command of the Shimsengumi, filled the door frame with his tall form draped in the identifying blue-stripped haori. "Step aside. We're going to search the premises." Startled by the identify of unexpected caller and his command that left no room for argument (save by the edge of a sword), the innkeeper stood as if his feet were rooted to the floor. Then, suddenly breaking out of his stupor, he turned and fled toward the back of the inn leaving the door wide open behind him.

"Look for Katsura and the assassin but let no one escape!" Hijikata shouted as he crossed the threshold in quick pursuit of the innkeeper who was halfway to the back door.

Okita Souji, leaping instead to the staircase, thrust his sword through the chest of the startled Ishin guard, then let the limp body crumple to the ground beside him. "It's not the assassin!" The squad clamored single-file up the narrow stairway, one so old that it creaked in protest with each pounding footstep. Then all at once, naked blades gleaming in the pale moonlight, and they were grouped outside the door of the meeting room.

Summer fireflies, attracted by the pale flickering light, took to the air as the men inside scrambled to draw their swords. "Quick, we're under attack!" But even as the lanterns were extinguished by wicks sliced from the burning candles, it was clear that the young men who'd so vehemently asserted their opinions only moments before were no match for the squad of killers at their doorstep. Deep crimson splashed liberally across walls and floor. It dripped down curved steel blades and soaked indelibly into the soft tatami.

A blur of blue and silver, Okita charged though the thin shouji separating inside from the night, but as he landed on the balcony, the summer humidity fell upon him like a heavy cloak, and although his sword slashed through the air with deadly precision, it was more by instinct and luck than conscious effort. His breath caught in his throat, and he coughed, a persistent dry hack that tore though his chest like sandpaper.

Ahead, the dark silhouette of a man escaping into the night was backlit by multi-colored festival lights hanging limply in the heat. 'Imperial coward... you're mine.' With practiced ease, he skidded across the tiled roof toward his target, and with the three-step thrust he was known for, Okita fell upon the man like a falcon diving in for the kill. He neither flinched nor turned away as warm drops of blood sprayed across his face, but despite his quiet smile of satisfaction, his mind was restless with questions. Where was Katsura, and where was the assassin?

end of part 3

- - - - - - - - - -

Notes: Actually, according to history, it seems as though the Shinsengumi didn't know where the meeting was to take place (although they knew that something was going to happen). They divided into two groups with Kondou and Okita leading one and Hijikata and Saitou the other. There were only about 30 men total because some of the Shinsengumi was in Osaka. It was Kondou's group that found the rebels at the Ikedaya... but in the OAV, I'm pretty sure that it's Kondou that Kenshin/Tomoe meet in the street while Saitou/Okita are fighting at the Inn. Oh well... As you can see, I've followed the OAV more closely, just because that's probably what people are more familiar with. - Mir (05.22.02)

Edit (12/05): Of course, a third variation of the Ikedaya incident can be found in the Shinsengumi television drama…in which the Shinsengumi don't know of the meeting at the Ikedaya before hand but notice Katsura as he enters the premise. They attack the inn, and Katsura escapes through the back with Ikumatsu's assistance. Obviously I didn't follow this version .

Also, if you don't know, a mikoshi is a portable Shinto shrine that's carried through the streets by a team of about 20 men during festivals. They're usually gilded in gold and are surprisingly heavy. Tradition has it that its bearers are supposed to shake and jostle the kami (god) housed within in the mikoshi as much as possible during its journey down the street. Crowds of people often walk alongside the mikoshi-bearers and switch in when needed.  
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	4. Part 4

title: Ikedaya | part 4  
rating: pg-13  
author: Mir  
email: cathedraldragon@bigfoot.com  
website: http://ellone-loire.net/tfme  
  
disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki   
Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and   
produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.  
  
AN: In actuality, the body count on the night of the   
Ikedaya Inn Affair was relatively low. But the OAV   
showed Kenshin making short work of the Shinsengumi   
attackers, so I've taken some poetic license... On another   
note, the scene I've been promising has finally been   
written! It's taken partially from the flashback shown   
during the Kyoto arc where Kenshin/Saitou fight with   
Okita looking on.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
*part 4*  
  
  
Even the night itself seemed to grab at his body and impede his   
progress as he flew through the streets of Kyoto, red hair streaming   
behind him like fire from a burning arrow shot upward into darkness.   
Air passed rapidly in and out of his dry lips, his lungs burned, and   
his ribs ached with exhaustion. And all the while, his mind screamed,   
'faster'.  
  
And like the rainbow that follows the storm, she trailed behind him,   
not knowing what slight of hand enabled her to keep pace with him.   
Pale fingers clutched her skirts, hiking them up well past the point of   
decency, and around her, the night blurred out of focus until all that   
she saw was the trailing end of his ponytail flicking rusty sparks   
across the spray of stars above.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Where's Katsura?"  
  
Not surprised by the sudden presence of the man beside him, Okita,   
breathing hard, shook his head in frustration. The night had settled   
into itself, covering blackness with blackness as the temperature fell   
and clouds drifted across the sky. The jubilant festivities had been   
silenced by the smothering weight of the midnight hours, and the few   
lingering pedestrians still staggering homeward were too drunk to   
appreciate the deceptive serenity.  
  
"He wasn't here, and neither was the assassin." Okita casually wiped   
the smear of blood from his cheek with the back of this hand, but there   
was nothing to be done about the dark splots sprinkled irregularly   
across his haori. 'Sloppy'. It had been weeks since he'd been thus   
anointed. "It appears Miyabe has committed seppuku."  
  
"Coward." The gaze of Saitou Hajime drifted tiredly from the blood-  
stained balcony to the torn shouji and the splintered wooden frame that   
littered the street. "It would seem that Kondou ran into our missing   
assassin..."  
  
Okita's eyes widened slightly at the news, his hand unconsciously   
falling to the hilt of his sword. At the end the street, the bobbing   
of lanterns signaled the retreat of several of their comrades, four men   
proceeding cautiously side by side and a fifth trailing lamely behind.  
  
"... he walked away, but there's finally a rent in that ridiculous   
armor of his. He's absolutely furious that the boy escaped without a   
mark on him." Although hidden in the darkness, the taller of the two   
men grinned silently as he leaned against the wall behind him. "Serves   
him right for sprinting ahead. Those who hunt glory only get what they   
deserve." The two captains had separated at the bridge, and when   
Saitou and his men caught up with the rest of the unit, there was   
nothing to do save close the eyes of the dead. Only one Ishin hitoki   
could have committed the deed with such precision and efficiency. "I   
guarantee that he'll deny everything tomorrow -- damn pride of his."  
  
He tilted his chin upward, his eyes closing halfway in contemplation,   
and from the dark smudge of sky above, the wind suddenly rippled down   
the street and threw golden clouds of dust into the soft glow of   
lanterns. Saitou exhaled slowly. "White plum."  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
He turned the last corner to the inn and skidded to a halt so abruptly   
that Tomoe was forced to grab hold of a nearby building to keep from   
tumbling into his back. The flat cadence of whispered conversation   
drifted across the empty road, and as the moon slid behind the   
encroaching clouds, two lone figures half-obscured by shadow fell   
silent and turned with the tacit instinct of trained swordsmen in the   
direction of the newcomers.   
  
"I see you're not familiar with this section of Kyoto--" Saitou   
sneered, his voice cutting effortlessly though the silence. "--if   
there was enough time for me to stumble across Kondou and still beat   
you here. Then again, I would have expected no less from you Ishin   
morons." His gaze drifted from the boy to the one who stood beside him.   
"Tell the woman to leave. She has no place here tonight."  
  
Having regained both her breath and composure, Tomoe, instead of   
obediently backing away, stepped forward and laid a hand upon the arm   
of her companion. The light of the moon, as it made its swan song   
appearance before retiring behind the thick curtain of clouds,   
reflected in the whiteness of her cheeks and slid in slippery beads   
down her pale kimono. "He's wrong. My place is with you," she   
insisted softly into Himura's ear.  
  
"If you value your life, do as he says."   
  
If she was surprised by the flatness of his response, she let no trace   
of emotion cross her face. It would not do to show weakness before   
such men as those who stood before her. Oblivious to the thick dust   
that coated the hem of her kimono and the matted hair that clung to her   
shoulders, she pulled herself up straight and, with eyes trained   
carefully on the ground, she insisted, "If you want me to go, then make   
me."  
  
"Fine."   
  
And before she could react, he had shoved her backward with all the   
speed and strength for which he was known. As her legs folded beneath   
her, her palms collided heavily with the ground, and she blinked   
against the cloud of dust that encircled her. "Kenshin--" Ignoring   
the tender bruises forming on her shins, she pulled herself first to   
her knees and then to her feet. But what use was a sheath once a sword   
was drawn?  
  
"Stand down Okita. I, Saitou Hajime, will be the one to take   
Battousai's life tonight." Fragments of speech, words floating   
disjointedly through the air, echoed from one end of the alley to the   
other.  
  
"Kenshin... be careful." She pressed her cheek against the side of the   
building and traced along the wood's stiff ridges with her fingers.  
  
"I am a Tenshin Rishin, after all." Okita insisted hoarsely as he   
clenched his teeth together, determined not to cough.  
  
"But you're also feeling ill tonight; you can't pull the wool over my   
eyes." The smirk faded almost as quickly as it appeared, a fleeting   
shadow of emotion that dissolved into quiet inward strength. He turned   
from his companion as if to address the larger audience, an actor   
ignorant of his part onstage. "Battousai -- "  
  
And if by some unspoken cue whispered from behind the curtain of   
darkness, they flew toward each other like hunting eagles that fight   
about the clouds. Once, twice, three times steel clashed against steel   
-- mere streaks of light carving sharp geometric patterns against the   
stars. And when the indistinct blurs stabilized and at last came to   
rest in the middle of the street, the two men with eyes blazing like   
fire stood face to face, straining against the blades of their swords.   
  
"You'll never win--" the taller of the two growled as he shoved forward,   
throwing the lighter man from him. Even as the other's sword raked   
across the wooden supports of the building behind him, the Wolf of Mibu   
fell back into the infamous gotatsu stance for which he was known.   
Their eyes met in the briefest of appraisals, and then once again the   
scene disintegrated into shifting flashes of light.  
  
"--neither will you." Embedded in the low whisper was confidence built   
not from arrogance but from experience, and as they glared at each   
other across the seemingly interminable expanse of blackness between   
them, each knew that the words were nothing save the truth. "Not   
tonight." And yet, as the feral instinct from which man was born   
overrode common sense and blotted out rational thought, the two figures   
charged forward again and again beneath the scattered clouds of dust.  
  
"Miyabe died by his own sword." Two forms fell from the night like dew   
coalescing on new spring leaves. The smaller lunged forward with all   
the grace of a charging tiger, but his opponent pivoted sharply,   
avoiding the thrust by a tightrope margin of life and death.  
  
"He was not my responsibility." It was Battousai's turn to twist away   
from the swift retaliation, but even the sharp ringing of steel   
blocking steel couldn't drown out the cool indifference in his response.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
'What time is it? Why am I here?' The thoughts penetrated his mind   
even before he was fully awake, and the thin candlelight that flickered   
by his head did little to disguise the lateness of the hour. 'Have I   
missed the meeting? What of Miyabe and the others?' He couldn't   
ignore the throbbing behind his temples and the loudness of his   
heartbeat in his ears. 'Drugged. I've been drugged.' His hands   
reached for his swords, which thankfully he found by his side. 'But   
why?'   
  
Katsura Kogoro, unofficial leader of the Choshu domain, pulled himself   
to his feet in the half-darkened room, thoughts of betrayal etched   
clearly across his features. He dared not call for Ikumatsu -- for she,   
undoubtedly, was the cause of his current state of affairs since he had   
had nothing to eat since midday. 'Why'. Even as he smoothed the   
wrinkles in his kimono and slid the swords through his obi, he couldn't   
shake the question from his mind. 'After all this time, I've given her   
no reason to turn against me.'  
  
But before he could escape through the garden out onto the deserted   
street beyond, she was there beside him, eyes beseechingly meeting his   
as she reached for his kimono to keep him from leaving. In the muted   
moonlight, her hair fell in thick viscous streams down her back, and   
her light summer yukata was poor disguise for the graceful curves of   
chest and hips. "It's my fault," she murmured, suddenly reluctant to   
close the distance between them. "I couldn't stand to see you killed."  
  
Katsura, puzzled by her cryptic admission and torn between belief and   
disbelief, stood immobile before her, anchored to the floor like a tree   
to the ground. "What happened tonight?" She had known something he   
hadn't, of that he had no doubt. "You must tell me... for the sake of   
the domain and the men --"  
  
"--who died in your place tonight." Unlike some women, she had no   
intention of dolling out strings of euphemisms, no desire to continue   
to withhold information from the one she loved. With the hour of the   
dog long since expired, the need for caution had passed as well. "You   
know that sometimes I overhear information -- for some men are willing   
to divulge secrets in front of a woman that they wouldn't breathe a   
whisper of in the presence of their own sex."  
  
Katusra nodded, at once both curious and impatient. He pressed his   
lips together in determination as he fought the urge to pace back and   
forth across the floor, both to shed nervous energy and to clear his   
head. "Continue."  
  
"There were men from Aizu who knew of your meeting and planned to   
attack the inn tonight, just after the hour of the dog." Her voice was   
flat, noticeably devoid of emotion. "And not only that, but they had   
ensured the aid of the Shinsengumi." She tilted her head to the side   
as she let her shoulders sag in defeat. "They knew too much to be   
bluffing."  
  
"Then the meeting was a failure." Momentarily stunned by the news,   
Katura stared blankly into the semi-darkness as his mind raced across   
the myriad spectrum of possibilities. 'Indeed, what of his followers?   
How many had survived?' For a fleeting moment he wished he'd   
instructed Himura to meet him at the inn. 'Stupid, stupid. What could   
he alone have done against a squad of Shinsengumi? He would have   
wasted his life for nothing.' There was no point in regretting the   
past; what mattered most was directing the future. "I must return to   
the Choshu headquarters tonight."   
  
She stood silently as he sighed and walked past her toward the waning   
night. Once she began to raise a hand toward his back -- but she   
checked herself with a stern thought. It was not her place to   
interfere in the inner workings of the domain. 'Except when they are   
life and death matters for you, love.' There was a time for action and   
a time for inaction.  
  
As if in response to her truncated movement, Katsura paused mid-step,   
one hand on the wooden doorframe. Although he scanned the deserted   
garden with his eyes, his voice was clear over the stillness of the air.   
"You'll be safe. No one knows I was here, and daylight will come soon   
enough."  
  
"At least change your clothes before you leave... there may still be   
Shinsengumi in the streets."   
  
Again he sighed, torn between the rationality of her words and the   
feeling inside that urged him make haste back toward the Choshu   
headquarters. 'But what difference will another minute make? If the   
damage has been done, it's been done.' And so it was dressed as a   
common beggar that Katsura Kogoro finally crept through the lonely   
streets back toward the Choshu headquarters, back toward an uncertain   
future and the beginnings of a revolution.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
She reached forward to touch the red stain on his sleeve to prove to   
herself that the figure before her was real flesh and blood, not merely   
an illusion conjured into existence by a mind dazed by fatigue. The   
fabric beneath her fingers was slick and moist -- and she knew that it   
was only by luck that no one had been seriously injured. The humidity   
had fallen from the sky like water draining from a rice paddy, leaving   
behind a newfound crispness that would with time mature into pale hints   
of morning. They were alone in the empty street, alone with nothing to   
prove the night's existence save the dull red stain that she pressed   
absently to her cheek.  
  
"We should leave..." His voice was low, hoarse from shouting, but his   
tone left no room for argument. Not that she would have thought of   
arguing with him, not with the scene she'd witnessed freshly imprinted   
upon her mind. "...I need to find Katsura." There was a slight   
hesitation to his speech as if he was afraid to reveal his true reason   
for abandoning the ruined inn.  
  
The fight had ended when the two opponents were too exhausted to   
continue. The stared at each other like wild animals, teeth bared,   
eyes narrowed -- but neither had the strength to continue.   
And so the two Shinsengumi captains had left in pursuit of their   
comrades, content for the moment to call the match a draw.   
  
"That wound, it's bleeding again." It was then that she realized that   
the blood wasn't from any fresh injury but from the cut on his cheek   
that stubbornly refused to heal. The humidity circled around them like   
a vulture hovering around a dying animal, but she barely noticed as she   
drew close beside him.  
  
He jerked away as she reached up with the edge of her sleeve to wipe   
the blood away. "Don't bother. It'll stop on it's own." But as if   
regretful of his coldness, he turned back toward her at last, amber   
eyes muted by the shadows of approaching storm clouds, and said simply,   
"I'm sorry... about the evening."  
  
And she nodded as her eyes met his, forgiving him unconditionally.  
  
  
*end of part 4*  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
Written partly while listening to "The War of the Last Wolves" (the   
music played in the background of the OAV's when Kenshin and Saitou   
fight) and partly while listening to "Cherry" by Spitz. It's been a   
long time since I updated, I know, and I apologize. "Divergence" is   
next and then "Hanafubuki."  
  
  
- Mir (08.05.02)  
. 


	5. Part 5

title: Ikedaya | part 5/5  
rating: pg-13  
author: Mir  
email: mir@despammed.com  
website:   
  
disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki   
Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and   
produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.  
  
AN: This has been a long time coming, and it's short. What   
can I say? Oh right, and it's a little abrupt as well. I've been   
debating where to end this story (i.e. cut if off directly after   
the Ikedaya event or continue beyond it), and I've finally   
decided on the former. I do recognize that the ending might   
leave a little to be desired. Therefore, I'll leave you with the   
promise of an intention to write a sequel one of these days.   
Okay? ^_~  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
*part 5*  
A man, lightly built and of medium stature, stopped by the gate of the   
Choshu headquarters. As he neared the group of young samurai standing   
guard, he reached up with one frayed and dusty sleeve to wipe the   
glistening sweat from his forehead. The oldest of guards, a sturdy man   
just barely into his thirties, reached for his sword as the stranger   
approached, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Many drunks had wandered past   
after overdosing on the festival's festivities, but the figure walking   
toward him neither stumbled nor staggered. If anything, despite his   
worn and stained clothing, he held himself with a dignified stance that   
undeniably bespoke confidence and sobriety.   
  
"Excuse me, but--" He not-so-subtly stepped between the man and the   
gate, blocking the other's path with his body. It was only then,   
underneath the lamps' yellow light, that he was able to clearly see the   
man's face.  
  
"Good evening, Ishuya-san. If you would let me pass..." Katsura   
Kogoro, unphased by the lukewarm welcome, calmly met the guard's gaze   
and extracted his hands from his sleeves. Even with the moon hidden   
behind clouds, he hadn't expected his disguise to be so effective. Was   
a man's clothing really so important to his identity?  
  
"Excuse me, I'm so very sorry, sir. Yes, of course, Katsura-san."   
Ishiya bowed deeply, his face reddening at his mistake. Silently he   
cursed his stupidity -- the others were going to make fun of him for   
weeks. How could he have failed to recognize Katsura, of all people?   
But the other man's words shocked him out of his self-pity.  
  
"You are to lock the gate. Do not let anyone else enter tonight, not   
even our own men." He swallowed, as if trying to rid his mouth of the   
taste of the words he had no desire to say. "Do you understand? No one   
is to leave or enter until daybreak. No one." There might still be   
men abroad if they survived the attack on Ikedaya, but it was too great   
a risk to wait in hope of their return. No, the headquarters had to be   
secured, no matter what the cost.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
"We should leave." Two figures, one white and one blue, stood beneath   
the building's eves like abstract shapes stenciled out of the darkness.   
The one with swords at his belt frowned, his golden eyes piercing   
through the night like steel through skin. His voice, although soft,   
left no room for arguments, and his words were more statement than   
opinion or suggestion. Still, he looked toward the woman for   
confirmation. She nodded, kimono streaked with dirt and hair falling   
into her eyes. Around them, the streets lay quiet, and above, the   
clouds continued to pass by. And so they walked, on behind the other,   
through the streets of Kyoto with only their stars as their guide.  
  
The night wore on as they wound through street after street, slowly   
approaching the Choshu headquarters. But when they arrived at last,   
the gate was locked fast, and no one was standing outside to guard.   
Had he been alone, the hitokiri would have gone around back and scaled   
the fence with all the ease and grace of a cat. But he was not alone   
tonight. 'Women. What a nuisance.'  
  
"We'll have to find an inn. We can't just stand here all night," he   
muttered at last, not at all pleased with the situation at hand. 'As   
if the night couldn't get any worse.'  
  
"Just go inside. Don't worry about me; I've traveled alone before."   
Even tired and dusty, there was a certain elegance to her composure and   
an unassuming confidence radiating from unclouded eyes.  
  
He was surprised by her sudden show of independence and the calm   
indifference that settled across her face like a veil. But although   
his eyes narrowed slightly, there was no other obvious sign of his   
emotion. "Fine, do as you wish. I'm not your father."  
  
She had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing at his comment,   
dangling from the response as awkwardly as a dead branch from a tree.   
There was something absurd about the image, that of her quiet, gentle   
father and the Hitokiri Battousai transposed into one. 'But I could   
see him as a father.' And the thought, floating unbidden through her   
head, seeped down into her body, and despite the oppressive heat, she   
shivered.  
  
"Well...?" A hint of boyish impatience bubbled up through in his voice,   
and he blinked. And suddenly, for a brief moment he wasn't the Ishin   
hitokiri, wasn't the murderer of her fiancé and killer of countless   
others. He wasn't a lethal shadow stalking the Kyoto streets   
soundlessly at night. He was only a young man, tired, hot, and   
irritated.   
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, then." She stared into his eyes, those deep   
amber spheres that took in everything and let nothing escape.   
Everything, almost. Then, with a slight nod she turned and began   
walking, slowly, one foot in front of the other down the road, dust   
swirling into the air behind her. She didn't know where she'd go.   
There were places.... if one was willing.  
  
"Wait--" He didn't move, didn't reach out as another might have done   
in his place, but it was enough, and she turned. "Wait."  
*end of story*  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
So that's it. This is actualy my first finished multi-part RK   
story. Can you believe that? I guess you can say that I'm   
just really horrible at finishing things.... right. Anyhow, on   
that note, I just want to say that I'm in the process of writing   
the first chapter for a new RK story -- an AU piece in which   
Kaoru is a picture bride coming to America. I'm going to   
try to write the first two chapters before I post the first one,   
though.... but I've been writing a bit each night, so hopefully   
it' won't take me too long to finish the first 30-40kbs.   
  
Thanks to everyone who has read this story and mega-thanks   
to those who have reviewed. haku baikou, Firuze Khanume,   
Mara, M.Kasshoku, Calger, Mikan, and Arashi among others.   
I write because it's fun, but your comments are like frosting   
on a cake, and they always make my day. You guys rock.  
  
- Mir (03.18.03)  
. 


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